The first thing Alexander noticed was the tension in his neck, he was barely tucked in on the couch anymore. Had he even slept? Oliver had done that--he always did, even when they fought. Even when Alexander chose the couch over their bed.
Light crept in through the sheer curtains, warm and gold, but not quite enough to chase away the chill from the night before. He stayed still, staring at the ceiling. The cushion beneath him was too narrow for comfort, his neck ached faintly, and yet he hadn't moved once all night. He didn't want to.
His thoughts circled back, slow and thick like honey: Oliver's voice, low and careful. "What if we opened things up... just a little? Just to explore."
At the time, Alexander had only blinked at him, unable to speak. Not because he was angry. Not exactly. But because Oliver had looked at him with those stormy gray eyes, soft with hope and fear all at once, and it was the most vulnerable Alexander had seen him in months.
He hadn't said yes. He hadn't said no, either.
And then, as if summoned by the heat of the moment, Trevor had knocked on their door.
Unexpected, of course. Unexpected for him anyway. Oliver had invited him.
He had only seen the man a handful of times at their shared gym. Trevor was always a little too smooth, a little too good-looking, the kind of guy you didn't invite over if your marriage was on a ledge. Six foot three, chiseled, always smelling like something expensive and slightly dangerous. Oliver had gone to answer the door, but Alexander had been the one Trevor's eyes landed on.
He exhaled, letting the memory play out in the stillness of the room. The faint click of the door. Trevor's smirk. The way Oliver's hand lingered too long on Trevor's arm in greeting.
And then... Alexander shook his head.
His body stirred under the blanket. The warmth of it now felt too much, like the memory itself was beginning to melt into him, seep through his skin.
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair.
What the hell am I doing? What the fuck did I allow to happen?
He moved slowly, the blanket sliding from his hips. The apartment was too still, as if it were waiting for him to react. But to what, exactly?
Alexander leaned back against the couch, letting his head rest against the cushion. That last part of the night--the part after the conversation, after Trevor had arrived--was foggy with emotion, not alcohol. He remembered the look on Trevor's face.
That mouth. That smirk.
And then the words, tossed out like a knife hidden in a compliment.
"Guess he didn't tell you about Cleo's."
Alexander had frowned, his chest already tightening.
Trevor had said it too casually to be casual. And Oliver had gone to Cleo's. Just two weekends ago. Alexander had been in Chicago, pacing in his hotel room between back-to-back meetings, exchanging sweet, surface-level texts with Oliver.
"Just out with Seth. Cleo's is wild tonight."
He remembered the message exactly. He'd even smiled at it.
And now? The same sentence tasted bitter in his memory. Had Oliver slept with someone that night? Was the conversation last night an attempt to rewrite something already done?
His stomach clenched. Not out of anger, not quite--but confusion. He'd known they were drifting a little. He just hadn't realized how far.
And the worst part wasn't the possibility that Oliver had been with someone.
It was the gnawing thought that he might never have known--if Trevor hadn't said anything.
Alexander rubbed his hand over his mouth, then down to his throat. His skin felt hot despite the room's cool air. Beneath the confusion, something else stirred. Jealousy? No--something stranger, darker. A part of him wanted to know exactly what happened that night.
Who had touched Oliver?
And why Oliver hadn't told him first.
The silence was fractured by a sudden voice.
"Hey, Bitchboy, get in here!" Trevor's voice carried down the hallway like it owned the place.
Alexander flinched--his heart jumping before his body followed. He sat up too fast, the blanket sliding off in a tangled heap. His feet hit the floor with a soft thud, cold against the hardwood. He still wore the same outfit from last night.
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to. The weight of Trevor's voice had already shifted the morning into something else--something heavier.
For a moment, he stood frozen just outside the hall, unsure if his body would listen. Then, quietly, he made his way toward the bedroom.
The door was slightly ajar. He hesitated, hand hovering above the knob.
Then he pushed it open.
The scene hit him like a punch wrapped in cotton.
The curtains were drawn, sunlight slipping through in soft ribbons of the warm-hued room. Oliver lay on the far side of the bed, tangled in the sheets, one bare shoulder exposed, pale and rising slowly with breath. Still mostly asleep. Peaceful. Innocent, even.
Trevor sat upright beside him, shirtless, sheets carelessly low on his hips. His body, as always, was absurd--sharp lines, tan skin, the kind of physique you could only get if you scheduled it. He didn't bother hiding the smirk as his eyes met Alexander's.
"There you are," Trevor said, stretching. His tone was all mock surprise, as if Alexander were the one trespassing. ""I gave Oliver quite a seeing to last night, Alexander, he'll be as hungry as I am when he wakes up. Go and make us some breakfast. Eggs? Coffee? Something."
Alexander didn't answer. He couldn't. Not yet.
His gaze drifted back to Oliver--his Oliver--still soft in sleep, lashes casting tiny shadows on his cheeks, lips parted just slightly.
He wondered how long ago Oliver had fallen asleep. He wondered who had held him there.
And underneath it all, hot and rising like floodwater, came the anger.
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
It coiled inside him, tight and burning. Not just at Trevor, lounging like a king. Not even at Oliver, who had let it happen--or maybe wanted it to happen.
No, the anger was at himself.
For wondering if he should say yes. For doubting what he deserved. For letting someone else--this smug, smirking man--decide the shape of his morning.
His jaw clenched.
"I'll see what we have," he said finally, voice low, eyes not leaving Trevor's. It wasn't an agreement. It wasn't obedience. It was something colder.
And then he turned.
The door creaked softly as it closed behind him.
The kitchen was too clean. Too quiet. Every sound Alexander made felt louder than it should've--each crack of an egg, each scrape of the whisk in the bowl. The pan hissed when the butter hit, the scent rising thick and warm, familiar.
He moved mechanically, as if his body had agreed to the task without consulting the rest of him. Cooking. Breakfast. For them.
Trevor's words still rang in his ears, bright with insult and possession.
"Make us something."
The plural stung. It was the way Trevor said "us," like he'd always belonged there. Like Oliver had already made the choice. Or worse--had never needed to.
Alexander's grip tightened on the spatula. He told himself the pan was the reason his face felt hot.
He plated the eggs, carefully, slowly, like it would help keep his hands steady. Two glasses of orange juice. Two napkins folded at perfect angles. No mistakes. No outbursts. Not yet.
When he lifted the tray, it felt heavier than it should. He wasn't sure what he expected, walking back down that hallway. Not gratitude. No clarity.
Maybe just something.
The door was still mostly closed when he reached it. He nudged it open with a foot.
Then stopped.
For a split second, he forgot to breathe.
Now that Oliver and Trevor were awake, they were both naked. The sheets were almost pushed all the way down. Oliver was kneeling in front of Trevor, who was standing on the bed.
Trevor's body was a sculpture of effortless confidence.
He sat in the dim wash of morning light like it was painted for him--broad shoulders relaxed, posture open, unbothered. His skin was golden, almost glowing, where the sun kissed it through the slats of the blinds. Every line of him was honed: chest firm, abs defined in a way that suggested not just fitness but control, discipline. The kind that didn't need to boast, because the results spoke louder.
His torso tapered cleanly into narrow hips, and the blanket draped low enough to show the deep lines carved into his pelvis--the kind that always pulled the eye lower, whether you wanted them to or not. His arms rested easily at his sides, but there was no mistaking the strength in them. His body didn't just invite attention--it assumed it. Owned it.
There was no effort in how he displayed himself. That was the worst part.
He didn't try to seduce. He just was.
And there was his husband, sucking ravenously on the large cock that had provided him with so much pleasure the night before.
